The Poems of Edward Taylor :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thou mourning Family, what shall I say?
Shall Passion, or compassion o're me sway?
It is a day of Griefe: Tears are a Dress
Becoming us, come they not to excess.
Then keep due measure. Should you too much bring,
Your too much is too little far for him.

Thou mourning Widdow! oh! how sad? how sharp?
Poor bleeding Soule! how turned is thy Harp
Into the Voice of mourning? Organ sweet
Into the bitter Voice of them that weep.
But yet cheere up: New England layes her head
To thine, to weep with thee over thy Dead.
Thou may'st therefore spend fewer tears of Sorrow
Out of thine own, thou dost so many borrow.
Christs Napkin take, Graces green Taffity
And wipe therewith, thy Weeping, watry eye
And thou shalt see thy Hooker all ore gay
With Christ in bliss, adorn'd with Glories Ray,
And putting out his shining hand to thee
Saying, My Honey, mourn no more for mee.
That Love wrongs both, that wills mee with thee hence.
But joy to see my Joy, and Glory mence.
In Faith, Obedience, Patience, walk awhile
And thou shalt soon leape ore the parting Stile,
And come to God, Christ, Angells, Saints, and Mee.
So wee in Bliss together e're shall bee.
When we did wed, we each a mortall took.
And ever from that day for this did look
Wherein we parted are; and one should have
Griefe, I o're thy, or thou over my grave.
The Lot is cast on thee. I first must go
And leave thee weeping o're my Grave in woe.
But stay thy Sorrow: bless my Babes. Obey.
And soon thou shall with mee enjoy good day.

484

And as for you his Buds, and Blossoms blown,
Stems of his Root, his very Flesh and Bone,
You needs must have great droopings, now the Tree
Is fallen down the boughs whereof you bee.
You have a Father lost, and Choice one too.
Weeping for him is honour due from you.
Yet let your Sorrows run in godly wise
As if his Spirits tears fell from your eyes.
Strive for his Spirit: rather Christ's, than His
To dwell, and act his Flesh, yourselves, to bliss.
Its pitty these in him conjoyn'd, up grew
Together, should be parted here in you.
Plants of a Noble Vine, a Right, Right Seed.
Oh! turn not to a Strange Wild vine or Weed.
Your Grand sire were a Chiefe Foundation Stone
In this Blesst Building: Father was well known
To be a Chiefe Good Builder in the Same
And with his might did ever it mentain.
Your Grandsire's Spirit through your Father breathd
In Life, on you, and as his Life he leav'd,
Striving to breath into your hearts his Spirit
As out of him it passed, to inherit.
Be n't like such babes as parents brains out pull
To make a Wassill Bowle then of the Skull.
That Pick their Parents eyes out, and the holes
Stuff up with folly, as if no braind Souls.
You are of better form than this sad guise
Yet beare this Caution: Some apostatise.
And strive your Sires, and Grandsires Life and Line
Through you their Flesh and blood may brightly shine.
Imminde your Father's Death bed Charge and aime.
You are his Very Flesh, and Blood, and Name.
The name of hooker precious in our story

485

Make you more precious, adding to its Glory,
At the Bright flaming Sun of Righteousness,
With a Celestiall Light, e're burning fresh.
A Cabbinet of Vertue, ever brave.
A Magazeen of Counsill, Weighty, Grave.
A Treasury of Grace, th'Imbroideries
Of th'Holy Ghost in Heart, and Life here lies.
A Temple bright of Piety in print,
To glorify that God that dwelled in't.
A Stage of War, Whereon the Spirits Sword
Hew'd down the Hellish foes that did disturb.
A Cage whose bird of Paradise therein
Did sing sweete Musick forth to glories King.
A Silver Trumpet of the Temple bright
Blown by an Angell of Celestiall light
A Temple deckt, and with all graces spic'de
For God the Father, Spirit, and for Christ.
A Golden Pulpit Where an Angell Choice
Preacht Zions Grace with Sinai's thundering voice.
An Oratore of Prayre, which, rapt up, hopt
Up Souls to Heaven, Heaven down to Souls oft knockt.
Were there a Metempsychosis, we say
Greate Hookers Soule, sure, once possest this Clay.
Elijah's Mantle: and the dust that fell
Of th'Charriot, and the Horse of Israel,
Scarce ever dust more glorious made for bliss
With glorious Grace, or better usd than this,
That here now stript of all that Wealth, and Station
Doth lie, yet firmly holds its high Relation.
And here we leave it, till the last Dayes Shoute
Breaking its Coffin brings it glorious out.
And wipe those drops wrung from thy Winding Sheet
Brave Sir, off from our Eyes, that weeping keep,
With thy White Lawn thou wearst in Glory Gay,
Charming our Griefe therewith, Amen we say.